Hey there! Just checking in. I’ve gone from Frisbee champ to founding furball of Pawsburgh, the doggy utopia in the post-humans world. Alongside Zoey and Maggie, we’re tailoring a new society out of scrap and spirit – think canine Congress with more sniffing. Life’s ruff, but barking up new trees. Nostalgic for yesterday, but wagging into tomorrow. – Riles 🐾🌆✨

Ah, I remember it as if it were just yesterday, the way the world had tipped on its side with little in the way of an apology. Once upon a pre-apocalyptic era, I was a domesticated beast with pedigree – Riley the Border Collie – fetching Frisbees with an elegance that would put lesser species to shame.

But the day the world turned its back on us, my role shifted from pet to pioneer in a world reborn from ashes. With Zoey and Maggie by my side, we wandered into Pawsburgh, the last bastion of canine civilization, as the sun sank beneath the skyline that was no more. I recall the twisted metal and rubble around us, nostalgia untouched by claws or paws alike.

It’s curious, survival. Every dawn unfurled like Schnauzer Street itself, lined with the prospects of rivalry and companionship, of Fidos Feasts unfound and Bulldogs BBQs unbuilt. We were not just city canines erecting a township of tooth and tail but innovators piecing together the marrow of society from the carcass it used to be.

I meandered through Papillon Promenade, a street I once knew as lined with untasted delicacies and unmarked territories. Now, each paw print I left in the dust felt like signing a guestbook in a ghost town. My companions sniffed at corners or cocked an ear to the silence. Ah, survival, so serious that even Zoey’s command over her ball felt like governance.

“I find consolation in the concrete,” I mused, “yet yearn for the yawn of yesterdays.” It was Dorothy Parker, or maybe just the echo of a long-lost human phrase that tumbled through my canine thoughts, which, admittedly, were usually consumed by the next meal or a particularly taunting squirrel shadow.

In the austere remnants of Collie’s Cuisine, where Maggie and I sought refuge from the rain that fell like Morse code, we foraged for scraps like diplomats dining post-calamity. And between the hollow pitter-patter of drops and the twinkle of Zoey’s eyes as she found amusement in a leftover ball, it struck me – we were the architects of this new world.

In moments of reflection, by Harrier Harbor, I’d sit and watch the still water, contemplating life in patient ripples. The pool was once my liquid foe; now it was simply part of the canvas—a stark reminder of dread turned indifference. At night, the stars stitched patterns in the sky, daring us to dream of a past sprinkled with humanity’s touch, as if the cosmos plotted our map back to normalcy.

“Imagine,” I greeted the stars with a wag, “a place where bones grow on trees and every couch is fair for the jumping.” Alas, nostalgia itched like an unruly flea.

However, it wasn’t all existential musings and scavenging; there were moments where the marrow of life tasted sweet. In the shadow of The Pampered Pooch Salon, now a shelter for dreamers and dozers, we spoke of joy and jubilee. We set forth edicts, canines of varied breeds deliberating on the fetching affairs of state. Who needs a Fetching Feline Pet Emporium when every corner claimed by a feline, is an emporium itself?

So, I became a pioneer, a protector, a philosopher, and a friend. Journeys to the forest’s edge, where light danced with shadow as if nothing had changed, reminded us of the constancy of nature’s choreography. We reveled in our freedom, our rebirth amongst the ruins.

Sure, a dog’s life, they used to say. A dog’s life, indeed – a life punctuated by the profound and the mundane, by calamity and creation. And every evening, the tale wagged a little longer, the sparks of Pawsburgh ignited brighter, because after all, isn’t that just like life – a series of fetches and Frisbees, with a few squirrels thrown in for good measure?

The End.

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